CLAY TAKES A TRANSFER
From the top of a bus Clay Lindsay looked down a canon which angled
across the great city like a river of light.
He had come from one land of gorges to another. In the walls of this
one, thousands and tens of thousands of cliff-dwellers hid themselves
during the day like animals of some queer breed and poured out into the
canon at sunset.
Now the river in its bed was alive with a throbbing tide.
Cross-currents of humanity flowed into it from side streets and ebbed
out of it into others. Streams of people were swept down, caught here
and there in swirling eddies. Taxis, private motors, and trolley-cars
struggled in the raceway.
Electric sky-signs flashed and changed. From the foyer of theaters and
moving-picture palaces thousands of bulbs flung their glow to the
gorge. A mist of light hung like an atmosphere above the Great White
Way.
All this Clay saw in a flash while his bus crossed Broadway on its way
to the Avenue. His eyes had become accustomed to this brilliance in
the weeks that had passed since his descent upon New York, but
familiarity had not yet dulled the wonder of it.
The Avenue offered a more subdued picture. This facet showed a glimpse
of the city lovelier and more leisurely, though not one so feverishly
gay. It carried his mind to Beatrice Whitford. Some touch of the
quality of Fifth Avenue was in her soul. It expressed itself in the
simple elegance of her dress and in the fineness of the graceful, vital
body. Her gayety was not at all the high spirits of Broadway, but
there were times when her kinship to Fifth Avenue knifed the foolish
hopes in his heart.
He had become a fast friend of Miss Whitford. Together they had
tramped through Central Park and motored up the Hudson in one of her
father's cars. They had explored each other's minds along with the
country and each had known the surprise and delight of discoveries, of
finding in the other a quality of freshness and candor.
Clay sensed in this young woman a spirit that had a way of sweeping up
on gay young wings to sudden joys stirred by the simplest causes. Her
outlook on life was as gallant as that of a fine-tempered schoolboy. A
gallop in the Park could whip the flag of happiness into her cheeks. A
wild flower nestling in a bed of moss could bring the quick light to
her eyes. Her responsiveness was a continual delight to him just as
her culture was his despair. Of books, pictures, and music she knew
much more than he.
The bus jerked down Fifth Avenue like a boat in heavy seas, pausing
here and there at the curb to take on a passenger. While it was
getting under way after one such stop, another downtown bus rolled past.
Clay came to a sudden alert attention. His eyes focused on a girl
sitting on a back seat. In the pretty, childish face he read a wistful
helplessness, a pathetic hint of misery that called for sympathy.
Arizona takes short cuts to its ends. Clay rose instantly, put his
foot on the railing, and leaped across to the top of the bus rolling
parallel with the one he was on. In another second he had dropped into
the seat beside the girl.
"Glad to meet you again, Miss Kitty," he said cheerfully. "How's the
big town been using you?"
The girl looked at him with a little gasp of surprise. "Mr. Lindsay!"
Sudden tears filmed her eyes. She forgot that she had left him with
the promise never again to speak to him. She was in a far country, and
he was a friend from home.
The conductor bustled down the aisle. "Say, where do you get this
movie-stunt stuff? You can't jump from the top of one bus to another."
Clay smiled genially. "I can't, but I did."
"That ain't the system of transfers we use in this town. You might 'a'
got killed."
"Oh, well, let's not worry about that now."
"I'd ought to have you pulled. Three years I've been on this run and--"
"Nice run. Wages good?"
"Don't get gay, young fellow. I can tell you one thing. You've got to
pay another fare."
Clay paid it.
The conductor retired to his post. He grinned in spite of his official
dignity. There was something about this young fellow he liked. After
he had been in New York awhile he would be properly tamed.
"What about that movie job? Is it pannin' out pay gold?" Lindsay asked
Kitty.
Bit by bit her story came out. It was a common enough one. She had
been flim-flammed out of her money by the alleged school of
moving-picture actors, and the sharpers had decamped with it.
As she looked at her recovered friend, Kitty gradually realized an
outward transformation in his appearance. He was dressed quietly in
clothes of perfect fit made for him by Colin Whitford's tailor. From
shoes to hat he was a New Yorker got up regardless of expense. But the
warm smile, the strong, tanned face, the grip of the big brown hand
that buried her small one--all these were from her own West. So too
had been the nonchalance with which he had stepped from the rail of one
moving bus to that of the other, just as though this were his usual
method of transfer.
"I've got a job at last," she explained to him. "I couldn't hardly
find one. They say I'm not trained to do anything."
"What sort of a job have you?"
"I'm working downtown in Greenwich Village, selling cigarettes. I'm
Sylvia the Cigarette Girl. At least that's what they call me. I carry
a tray of them evenings into the cafes."
"Greenwich Village?" asked Clay.
Kitty was not able to explain that the Village is a state of mind which
is the habitat of long-haired men and short-haired women, the brains of
whom functioned in a way totally alien to all her methods of thought.
The meaning of Bohemianism was quite lost on her simple soul.
"They're jist queer," she told him. "The women bob their hair and wear
smocks and sandals. The men are long-haired softies. They all talk
kinda foolish." Kitty despaired of making the situation clear to him
and resorted to the personal. "Can't you come down to-night to The
Purple Pup or The Sea Siren and see for yourself?" she proposed, and
gave him directions for finding the classic resorts.
"I reckon they must be medicine fakirs," decided Clay. "I've met up
with these long-haired guys before. Sure I'll come."
"To-night?"
"You betcha, little pardner, I'll be there."
"I'm dressed silly--in bare feet and sandals and what they call a
smock. You won't mind that, will you?"
"You'll look good to me, no matter what you wear, little Miss
Colorado," he told her with his warm, big brother's smile.
"You're good," the girl said simply. "I knew that on the train even
when I--when I was mean to you." There came into her voice a small
tremor of apprehension. "I'm afraid of this town. It's so--so kinda
cruel. I've got no friends here."
He offered instant reassurance with a strong grip of his brown hand.
"You've got one, little pardner. I'll promise that one big husky will
be on the job when you need him. Don't you worry."
She gave him her shy eyes gratefully. There was a mist of tears in
them.
"You're good," she said again naively.